It was a hot humid June Friday night in the tiny town of Lindsay, Ontario and I had gotten off work, drove from my job as a shipper-receiver at a small factory in Peterborough to my shitty little apartment in a rooming house on the eastern edge of Lindsay. I hated my job and that asshole of a boss whom always seemed like he was about to fire me. I parked at the bar I would eventually end at, walked the four blocks to a diner with a liquor license (cheap booze and cheap fries), and sat down for a family sized order of fries and a rye and cola. I slowly nursed my one drink and fries for the next couple hours until the nearest and most expensive bar opened. I would bar-hop the three bars in town hoping to pick up a quick fuck from some easy horny slut who: A. I was not related to or B. hadn’t gone to high school with or C. hadn’t fucked a dozen times before or D. wanted pay for a lay; small town hookers were the worse and once was enough. Then the medium priced bar and last was the cheap watered down beer type of bar where I was most likely to find a relative and/or a hooker; sometimes both being the same thing.
I usually nursed an over-priced rum drink at the higher priced bar at the beginning of the night until the majority of the rich banker, stock broker and upper management types who bought large homes on the edge of town opposite to the Central East Correctional Centre which most people call the “Super Jail”, showed up to buy complex fancy mixology drinks. That’s when the owner made a show of throwing me out in front of the rich clientele. The few rich locals knew it was a show and that I only got into the bar since the owner and I were old high school buddies. He won some lotto money and opened this money-pit, which actually managed to make a profit in small town Ontario. On the way out I would stumble as he “threw me out” for the “show”.
Next stop was the medium quality bar called “Horseshoe Tavern”, a country bar catering to locals and city commuters living in the area. They served some local craft brew beers, the big three Canadian brews and the most popular American beers on tap by the pint or pitcher. They also served good basic, simple mixed drinks like a rum and cola, rye and ginger ale, Caesar, brown cow, black Russian and even a grasshopper. They served buffalo chip fries, Philly cheese steak, chicken wings, chicken fingers, onion rings, beer battered fish and chips, deep fried pickles, a watered down spicy chili, nachos and cheese and that famous French Canadian dish Poutine with a slight twist as a BBQ pulled pork poutine and a Tex-Mex Chicken poutine. I often spent most of my time and money here since it was the best chances of getting a good meal and picking up some lonely office worker, single mom on her one night per month out on the town or college student from the Forestry College or commuting college or university student from one of the Peterborough schools. Being in my early thirties and looking mid-twenties I had a chance at one of the hot college students looking for the slightly rough looking (poor and pissed-off) guy if she was not overly picky on looks.
I’m no James Dean or even a Bieber, but once the ladies get past that they sometimes get the chance to find out I’m decently endowed enough to make them quite happy. June was a horrible month to pick up women in this town, since all the college girls moved back home for the summer and the cottagers partied mostly at their luxurious “cottages”. The bikini clad cottagers sometimes came into town to the richer bar with their lure of a summer “ladies night” with cheap fruity drinks, vodka coolers, and low-fat “wraps” or fajitas or oysters or even wings with gourmet sauces. This night I was getting depressed and running out of money. Next and last stop was a place simply called “The Bar”.
This was the town dive bar with the entrance in an alley with a dim red neon light which at one time had a name before the word “bar”, but long ago had been broken and either forgotten or deemed too expensive to fix. Walking into the bar you were assaulted by the smell of mold, stale beer, and often sex. They served beer by the bottle or pitcher; nothing local. They also served watered down rum, rye, and vodka with cola; often brands you never heard of or smuggled American liquor or stolen black-market booze. This place would give seedy places a bad name.
Bribes and relatives in high places kept this place open. Some locals suspected biker gangs or other organized crime owned part or all of the bar. The tables were mixed non-matching types with chairs of various types and ripped cushions. Interior lighting barely existed with possibly one of four lights working and most of that was over the bar. The dark corners of the bar had cushioned corner bench seating where town sluts or hookers serviced their men; bartenders and over-weight waitresses with giant boobs practically spilling out of halter tops looked the other way. Sometimes the bartenders demanded a “tip” from the hookers. As I sat down with my pitcher of beer and dirty glass I realized this bar provided a “public service” by drawing the worse elements of the town and county into a single place away from places frequented by innocent college kids, rich mansion-owning commuters, and tourist/cottager types of people. Regular locals knew enough to stay away or like me simply didn’t give a fuck.
Tonight was another “don’t give a fuck” night and I was already well on my way to getting drunk. The pitcher of watered-down beer would keep my buzz on until I finally decided to walk across town to the room I rented. I sat back enjoying the entertainment provided by my fellow patrons. Tonight was a bonus night with: a drug deal going down at a table on the other side of the bar from me, a waitress stumbled a bit on loose carpet and her left boob popped out of her braless halter top which she quickly tucked back in to avoid giving us a free show, an old drunk was singing at a table a few tables to my right AND the REAL SHOW was the hooker servicing a client in a corner table two tables to my left. I tried not to show too much attention to the almost visible hooker as she hiked up her skirt, rolled a condom on him, climbed on the guy’s dick, hiked up her boob tube halter top, stuck her large saggy boobs in his face and began to ride the older guy’s dick. My pitcher of beer outlasted the guy.
The hooker approached me, I waved her away, gulped my last beer, got up, said no more money and I’m leaving. I said the no money as much for the possible muggers as for the hooker. She gave me a dirty look and quickly approached the next table. As I left the bar I thought she was pretty dumb or pretty desperate or both to be looking for hard dicks in a bar with cheap booze. I’m surprised any guy here could get hard; especially for her.
Home seemed far away and I was stumbling a little. I didn’t have money for a taxi either. Then the clouds which had threatened rain all day opened up drenching me. The cold rain cleared my mind enough to remember my good buddy Kevin lived five blocks away in a nice house in a decent part of town halfway between the bars and home. I ran, fell a couple times, and then hesitated at the door. Despite the pouring rain and my drunken state, I was reluctant to knock on the door. Not only due to the fact it was eleven on a Friday night, but also the fact my buddy from high school had a seven year old and a nine year old boy; along with his wife Bethany.
Bethany hated me since, as best man at their wedding, I got Kevin well-laid and very drunk the night before at the bachelor party. We barely made it to the wedding and Kevin could barely stand. We made it through the reception, but he was a bit too limp to get hard enough to consummate their marriage on the wedding night. He slept all the way to Jamaica where the first night of their honeymoon he finally got hard enough to fuck. He told me that when she changed into her bikini in their room in Jamaica he got instantly hard and remained so for most of the week when he was awake.
Bethany was a wet-dream come true; blue eyes, short pixie blonde hair, 5’ 7”, 36 DD-28-33. Apart from hating me, Bethany was also a black belt Karate part-time instructor and a fierce temper when angered. Showing up wet, late at night, AND drunk qualified to me as an “anger inducing situation”. Maybe I would get lucky and Kevin would answer the door and have time to calm her down? I was too depressed and too drunk to give a fuck tonight; plus soaking wet. I knocked on the door, waited and no answer.
I was about to leave when a vision of great beauty answered the door. In front of me was Bethany, psycho-bitch of my nightmares, slightly disheveled and flustered with a slight bit of annoyance; mixed with a little contempt and pity.
I begged, “Beth, can I stay on your couch, floor or garage for the night; anyplace dry? I’m too drunk to drive or walk home. Your place was close. Sorry for disturbing you so late. Is Kevin around?”
Beth sternly said, “Okay, get out of the rain and you can stay the night; ON THE COUCH. You march straight to the bathroom and get out of those wet clothes.”
I slurred, “I’ve waited a decade for you to tell me to get naked. I’ll get naked for you anytime and anywhere.”
.... There is more of this story ...